


Set in Quiet Expectations

by moriturism



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Suna Asks Questions, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:46:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24436882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moriturism/pseuds/moriturism
Summary: Suna takes time to learn about Osamu because he’s worried he might be the first person that ever did.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 17
Kudos: 312





	Set in Quiet Expectations

Suna didn’t think much of Osamu prior to his second year.

There wasn’t much to think about, really. He was the second half of an irritating pair of twins, just part of a matched set. He was half the blame for all the squealing girls that would show up to their practices only to be disappointed at the locked metal doors. He was a good player, sure, and a pain in the ass otherwise.

Suna didn’t mind him, really. After all, Osamu was just a loud muscle head like his brother; he got into arguments during practice and competed over trivial things like who could eat the most (he always won) or hit the fastest spikes. He kept life interesting, and Suna could, at the very least, appreciate that.

Truly, Suna didn’t think much of Miya Osamu until he walked into his second-year classroom to see his ashy head of hair sitting alone in the corner, holed up reading a book about something or other.

“Yo,” Suna called out, finding a seat near him. He didn’t _mean_ to take pity on him, it just looked so damn lonely to see this handsome bastard looking like he had nothing better to do than stare out the window like some sappy star in a music video. At a loss for words, Suna fell to a topic he was sure they could both relate to. “Did you hear about the Raijins last game?”

Osamu looked up from his book with raised eyebrows as if to say ‘ _me?_ ’

Suna nodded blankly. _Who else?_

To his surprise, Osamu put down his book and straightened up a bit, giving Suna his full attention. “I don’t really watch pro games,” Osamu admitted sheepishly, not looking at Suna. “s‘more ‘Tsumu’s thing.”

“Huh.” Suna paused to consider this. He’d always assumed Atsumu things were Osamu things and vice versa. After all, Osamu always went along with whatever Atsumu suggested. This was a revelation.

“So what did you do this weekend?” Suna asked at the same time Osamu responded, “What happened with the Raijin’s?”

Without missing a beat, Suna gave Osamu an extensive play by play of the miraculous game he watched, not stopping to wonder about whether or not Osamu was even listening.

* * *

Suna didn’t expect much to change when he first realized Osamu was in his class.

He figured maybe there’d be a few more fangirls gazing longingly through the halls, maybe a few teary rejections as well, but nothing that would upset _his_ routine. Osamu had always been amusing, but never in a way that intruded on Suna.

So he was awfully surprised to be standing under the cherry blossom tree, a cute first year bowing to him with a letter.

“Please could you give it to Osamu!” she demanded, voice tight and nervous.

Suna looked down at her, stuck between saying _why me_ and _do it yourself._

“Why not do it yourself?” is what he asked instead.

“Well,” she stared into the ground. “No one confesses directly to Osamu.” Suna snorted. Was this some taboo he hadn’t heard of? “Atsumu is so cruel with rejection. No one’s willing to find out how much worse Osamu is.”

Suna pictured the boy who, just yesterday at practice, brought in snacks for everyone as an apology for “being a piece of shit” (Suna was fairly certain he just brought them to impress Kita). The only thing cruel about Osamu was the fact that he kept laughing at his brother’s jokes no matter how crappy they were.

“What’s so attractive about him, anyway?” Suna laughed, question more rhetorical than genuine. Still, the student in front of him seemed to be dwelling on her answer.

“He’s got great muscle, and a sharp jaw,” she explained as if that justified her love letter. “Plus, he’s so quiet. It’s mysterious.”

Suna wasn’t sure why her explanation didn’t quite sit right with him, or why he suddenly remembered the book Osamu had been reading, which Suna didn’t even think to ask about.

“So he’s just a quiet version of Atsumu,” is what Suna deduced, letter crinkling under his tight grip.

The girl in front of him looked surprised, really, but she didn’t argue.

* * *

“Got a gift for you,” Suna muttered, dropping the letter onto Osamu’s desk the next morning. “Bastard,” he added.

Osamu barked out a laugh, startling Suna. It was the loudest he’d ever been outside of volleyball practice.

“For me?” Osamu teased, shit-eating grin wide. “Ya could’ve told me in person, Suna.”

Suna pushed against Osamu’s side in mock protest, making a gagging gesture with his hand as he bemoaned, “you think my standards are that low?” Osamu only laughed again, returning the gesture. He’d only gotten more energetic the past few days. Suna didn’t mind, exactly, yet he didn’t understand _why._

“What should I respond?” Osamu asked, fingers tracing over the delicate edges of the letter.

Suna shrugged in response. Love had never exactly been his expertise. “What do you normally say?”

Osamu looked at Suna owlishly as if Suna was forgetting a crucial piece of information. “I’ve never been confessed to before,” Osamu revealed.

Had he been drinking, Suna would’ve done a spit take. “ _What?_ ” he asked, struggling to express his surprise. “But you’re-” Attractive? A great cook? The full package and more?

Osamu didn’t seem fazed. “I’m not that interesting, really. ‘Tsumu’s the real catch.”

Suna wanted, no, _needed,_ to protest because he couldn't think of a single way that Atsumu was better than Osamu as a partner or in any other aspect, but he bit his tongue. After all, it was Osamu that Suna was talking to. Osamu who never admitted to losing to Atsumu. Osamu who always got through Suna's block. It was Osamu. It was Osamu. Osamu. Osamu. Osamu.

Maybe Suna didn't know Osamu at all.

(Suna secretly hopes this isn’t true because every time he looks at Osamu he’s compelled to wonder what he’s thinking. It always seems like there’s a storm brewing just beneath the surface, waiting for someone to approach him and let it break free.)

“You’re selling yourself short,” Suna settles on, turning away from Osamu to focus on the teacher. Too bad, he misses the way Osamu’s mouth hangs open behind him.

* * *

Suna knows he’s not the most energetic person out there, but he’s always regarded himself as someone who’s approachable. His aloof disposition made him about as intimidating as a cold rock and he’s never had particularly strong opinions on anything.

He’d never had to go out of his way to make friends. Generally, people would congregate around him and he’d fall into their conversations rather easily. It wasn’t difficult to amuse people, all you ever really had to do was pretend you’re listening and occasionally ask a question. People are easy.

Osamu is not.

Suna can’t wrap his head around what possesses him to do it, but he finds himself in the seat in front of Osamu again during lunch, staring at his bento.

“You’re spoiled,” he complains, practically drooling at the lavish meal in front of Osamu. He’d never noticed it before, but no one ever bothered Osamu at lunchtime. Even Suna’s friends who’d usually saunter up to spoil the latest comic for him kept their distance, talking amongst themselves. Suna didn’t think much of it, really.

“I make it myself,” Osamu retorts.

“No way,” Suna argues immediately. “What’s wrong with it then? It looks pretty but tastes like shit?”

Osamu sits back and crosses his arms, grinning cockily. “You tell me,” he challenges, pushing the bento forward for Suna to taste. Osamu’s brimming with more confidence than the aftermath of a great spike, and it makes Suna so damned curious (and really tempted to call his bluff), so he doesn’t hesitate to take a bite of the sushi he’d prepared.

The taste is orgasmic. Suna’s tongue feels like the best parts of both heaven and hell, texture divine and flavor perfectly balanced.

When Osamu suggests it, Suna is quick to agree to split lunches. The food is so amazing he doesn’t really wonder the implications of eating Osamu’s prepared lunch or sharing his own lunch. After all, he’s too concerned with the feast in front of him.

“Dude,” Suna’s almost choking back tears. “Why didn’t I know you were such a good chef?”

Osamu shrugged, looking incredibly content with himself. “Ya never asked.”

* * *

“D’you wanna get ramen with me after practice?” Osamu offers to Suna one unassuming morning.

Suna doesn’t answer immediately, trying to discern under what pretense Osamu is asking. He supposed he’s silent for too long because Osamu starts rambling off excuses.

“A new place opened up that I really wanted to check out,” he explains. “‘Tsumu’s avoiding ramen, though, and I wanted to try two different dishes but it’s weird if I order them on my own and-”

“Sure,” Suna agrees.

He’s not sure why he does, really. Honestly, it was kind of funny to see Osamu get so flustered, ears turning bright pink. But something about it had Suna feeling sort of bad for him, too, his own face starting to heat up.

Agreeing shuts him up, after all.

“Is it expensive?” Suna adds, watching Osamu’s whole face light up.

It’s not, evidently, but even if it was that wouldn't make a difference to Osamu. When Suna asks him on the walk their what _exactly_ is interesting about the ramen place, Osamu doesn’t hesitate in giving him a verbal essay on their cooking and advertising methods.

It’s the most he’s ever head Osamu talk at once, Suna notices. Not needing to speak himself, it gives Suna time to really look at Osamu. His eyelashes are awfully long, Suna notices, and the longer he talks the more his expression seems to light up.

It’s sort of funny, walking with Osamu after practice. The sun is setting over the horizon, bathing them in an amber glow. Osamu talking about ramen seems to be an entirely different Osamu, one that Suna had never met before.

Suna wasn’t fond of strangers. He was never one to seek out new people to talk to at parties, although he wouldn’t avoid them if someone approached them. Still, he found himself wanted to know more about this Osamu.

The Osamu in front of him was a little scatterbrained, honestly. He stumbled over his words and got overexcited, talking sporadically with his hands. His thoughts were a mess of a storm, but sometimes everything would align perfectly and he’d find the eye in the center. He looked complete, not needing anyone around him to show him what it was okay for him to be.

It left Suna breathless.

He wondered how he’d never noticed it before.

* * *

Suna thinks about Osamu a lot during his second year.

He thinks about the way Osamu smiles like the world is passing by in front of his eyes and he’s just watching it go without him. He thinks about Osamu’s volleyball skills that have only ever been encouraged by his brother’s own tenacity. He thinks about the way Osamu probably wears an apron at home when he cooks because he cares too much about his clothes, and how he’d look with the string tied delicately around his thin waist.

Suna never intended to spend every morning walking into his classroom looking for the shitty dye job that Osamu refused to fix, but he also didn’t regret it.

“What’d you do over the weekend?” Suna finds himself asking and surprising himself when he actually cares about the answer.

“‘Tsumu got some tickets to a falcons game so I tagged along,” Osamu hums, flipping through the pages of his book. It’s a different one from last week, Suna notices.

“Didja cook anything?” Suna asks, pulling at strings for conversation.

Osamu just smirks, not looking up from the book. “Since when do you care?” he teases, before sighing. “I dunno if I can cook for the team again, it was a lot of money to get all that food at once.”

 _I don’t care about the team,_ Suna wants to scream, disgruntled. Instead, he leans his head onto Osamu’s desk lazily.

“Christ, did you do anything fun, or are you always this miserable?” he moans. Osamu shrugs.

“Volleyball games are fun,” he answers.

Suna sits up straight, looking through Osamu. “Volleyball is fun for Atsumu,” Suna retorts. “What about you?”

Osamu finally drops his book to look at Suna, only to be startled by the uncharacteristically serious expression on Suna's face. It was easy for Osamu to banter with Suna, positive that Suna would never _seriously_ care about whatever it was that kept him busy.

“What do you mean?” Osamu feigns ignorance, not sure how to approach the question.

Suna opens his mouth to speak, but freezes.

What _does_ he mean?

There’s a lot of things he could say, firstly calling him out on being entirely independent of Atsumu. Or he could explain once again how depressing Osamu sounds when he talks. He could talk about it rationally, probably, but frustration and irritation are rational thinking’s worst enemies and Suna’s had enough of Osamu’s bullshit.

He kisses him.

Suna has to crane his neck over the desk to do it, so it’s a bit awkward. Their teeth clash together and Suna has to pull back almost immediately to keep from falling over, but the buzz of electricity stays fresh on their lips.

By all means, Osamu _should_ be flustered that Suna Rintarou just kissed him in the middle of the classroom. Suna _should_ be at least a bit embarrassed that anyone could have seen, but no one seems to bat an eye at the two of them. After all, all the students around them can see is the quieter part of a matched set and a good reliable listener. No one worth bothering with, really.

But Suna is looking at Osamu like he is the only person in the whole world as he pulls back from the kiss.

“You taste like mint,” Suna says. “And I don’t give a shit about how that compares to Atsumu.”

Suna scoffs, more annoyed with his own ignorance of his feelings than with Osamu’s dumbfounded expression. “I want to know about you, Osamu,” Suna explains. “ _You._ Not your stupid brother. Just give me a chance.”

“Oh,” Osamu replies, lips tingling. “I…” He recalls every morning Suna greeted him and every well-versed question he asked about what he’d been reading or cooking. He thinks about an amber sky and the way Suna didn’t even attempt to tease him about his extensive food knowledge and he thinks about how when Suna looks at him, his eyes look like a mirror.

“I can do that,” Osamu agrees, hand sneaking forward on his desk to find Suna’s palm. “I think I can do that.”

After all, he’s only starting to get to know Suna, as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! I'm @birbwrites_ on twt if anyone wants to interact hehe


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